The Worst Possible Day
by Jemisoutageous
Summary: It's been a banner day for Gail. Testifying in court, disappointing her father, letting Steve down, losing Sophie. And then suddenly there she is, standing in front of her, telling her she wants her back.
1. Chapter 1

Hi there. I typically write for another fandom, but I love Gail and Holly, and I wish there were more seasons to look forward to. This happens right after Gail decides to let another family adopt Sophie, the day she had to testify in court. Let me know what you think.

Switches back and forth from Gail to Holly.

* * *

It's really been the shittiest possible day. I mean, fine, that's not true. I guess being drugged and shoved in a trunk and my friend dying trying to save you was way worse. And there was that day when we got shot at and some of my friends ended up in the hospital—that day really sucked, too.

Oh, and the day Holly left. Despite the fact that my chest felt like it was going to crack open, like my head was going to explode and all these thoughts I'd shoved in there about how much I wanted her to stay, to be with me, how much I loved her, were all going to stick to the floor, the walls, the ceiling like guts and shrapnel. But she left. And I let her go. _That_ day might have been worse than today. And every time I miss her, which is like every goddamn day, I hate myself a little bit more.

But today I got on the stand and sat there like an idiot. I was supposed to protect my brother, to lie for him. He would have done it for me. Without blinking. Loyal piece of shit. But not me. I told Lorelei I wasn't sure what I would have said up there if I hadn't been interrupted. But come on, that's not true. I was too scared to lie, even if it meant my brother behind bars. No, I was up there babbling and waffling, and when my dad banged his hand on the desk and told me to "answer the damn question!" I seriously thought I was going to throw up right there, next to the judge. And then he confessed, took a plea deal, and my dad looked at me like I'd shot Steve in the heart at point blank range. Because I didn't cover for him, and covering for him is what a Peck would do.

And then Lorelei comes over here and tells me she found this perfect fairytale family for Sophie, the kind of family she deserves, not a worthless beat cop like me, so that pretty much sealed it. This is the fourth worst day, and it can't end fast enough. Except I'm having one more drink, one more fucking drink before I put this pitiful day behind me.

That hand on my shoulder? Better not be Epstein or I'll rip it off his skinny little wrist.

"Gail."

* * *

It's really been the shittiest possible day. I mean, I'm a forensic pathologist, so I've seen some pretty gruesome things in my line of work. Women raped and left for dead. Children. Babies even. Those days are obviously worse. Those days, there's nothing you can do but polish off a few single-malts, take a bubble bath, and go to sleep.

But there was the day I left Toronto, the day I left Gail. I wanted to be so excited for this new job in San Francisco. I mean, it's _San Francisco_. Chance to run my own lab—the whole department. But all I could feel was my heart being sawed in two. When I hugged her goodbye, somewhere in my brain I thought maybe she'd beg me to stay. And I would have. Because I fucking love her. But she's Gail Peck, so come on. That whole thing about leaving your heart in San Francisco? Mine never even made it on the plane.

And so a week ago, after months of moping and being a zombie and going through the motions, day after day of getting up, putting everything into my job, coming back to my apartment, going for a run to further numb the pain, and falling asleep watch _Doctor Who_ reruns, I turned in my resignation.

I know. It sounds crazy impulsive for someone like me, someone who thinks about everything, thinks it to death. This is going to sound so corny, but this is really what happened. I had been watching this movie on Netflix the night before, like a cute(ish) romantic comedy with Daniel Radcliffe and some girl I can't remember. She tells him that the worst thing that ever happened to her was when her mother died of breast cancer when she was a teenager. And she says it made her realize how quickly everything can fall apart and that it made her want to make sure she never gave up anything good in her life, like on purpose. And for some reason, that hit me like a ton of Gail Peck-shaped bricks because she is, undoubtedly, the most good I've ever had in my life. And I just gave her away. Like a hand-me-down or a book you've already read.

So I quit my job and I packed up my beautiful apartment in Russian Hill and I booked a flight to Toronto for last night—a red eye, so I could arrive first thing today. Steve had called me and told me what was going on, that Gail had to testify for him. He thought she could use a friend today, someone in her corner. He's right. I know her. I know how nervous she'd be. And she's going to be so conflicted because her instincts for justice are as strong as her instincts for love and loyalty, so this going to be hard. And she'll blame herself either way because she's hard-wired to do that.

So I wanted to be there for her. But my flight was delayed and delayed and eventually cancelled, and the earliest I could get to Toronto was 5 pm today. And then I couldn't get a rental car so I wound up in an Uber, which I took first to her apartment, and she wasn't there.

So it's been a shitty day, but now I'm here, at the bar, where I should have known she'd be. And I see her. She looks a mess. She's crying. And all I want to do is hold her in my arms forever and never let her go. I probably should have figured out what I was going to say before right now. But fuck it.

"Gail."

* * *

 _That voice_. It's been too pathetically comically horrible of a day for that voice to be attached to the person it sounds like, the person I want it to be, the only person in all of Canada or the world for that matter who I actually want to see right now. But when I look up, by some fucking miracle, it's her, with her stupidly beautiful face. And I want to cry. Again.

"Holly? What the—"

She sort of laughs and nods, and I stand up so we're eye to eye. _God, I must look like a complete disaster._

"Hi," Holly says. "I wanted to be at the courthouse today. But my flight… I couldn't get here in time. I'm sorry."

I shake my head, because what the hell? Why would she care enough about that to fly across the country? She left.

"How did you know?"

"Your brother told me," she says quietly.

"Steve told you? I don't understand. How did he even get your number?" I said. I can feel I'm making that incredulous face that tells the person I'm with that I think they are the dumbest person alive, but that's not what I'm thinking. I'm thinking, _holy shit, the two people I love in this world actually love me back_? Because that is a revelation.

"It doesn't matter. I was already coming back, he just made me want to come back a little sooner."

"You were coming back? Here? For what?" (I'm trying not to sound like an idiot here, but I'm seriously confused.)

Then she does something that just kind of knocks me out. She cups my face and looks at me with those eyes, and I could melt into a sad little puddle of Gail pudding on the floor.

"Gail. I've never been _less_ happy in my entire life than I have been since I left here. Since I left you. I don't even know if you've moved on or whatever, but I had to come back here and at least see. Because you are something so good in my life—the best thing, really—and I don't want to be without you anymore. I'm tired of loving you but not having you. I'm tired of missing you. Be with me. I mean, if you want that too, because I just—"

The alcohol and the crying and the courthouse and my dad's angry face had left me with a piercing headache, and now Holly is doing that Holly thing, so you know I had to do it. I kissed the shit out of her. I mean I hauled her in by the neck and I planted one on her, and she did that little moan in my mouth that makes my head swim. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled back from kissing me and tucked her face into my neck. And with Holly holding me so tight, with her coming back for me, with her saying she loves me and I'm something good in her life, suddenly this day isn't so shitty. It's pretty good actually.

And I kind of can't wait till tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Damn! This was going to be a one shot. But this story keeps whispering to me at night and saying more! More! We need more Gail and Holly. So I'm just doing my part here, trying to save the world, one Golly story at a time. ;) Let me know what you think.

* * *

When she said, "Lets get out of here," I was kind of thinking she meant, "Lets go to your apartment so I can take off all your clothes and kiss your face off (or something lower than your face)," but this, sitting on the swings at a park by my apartment, this will work, too. Cause she's right. We do need to talk. Plus, the next time I get the chance to lay my naked body on top of her naked body, the next time I get to touch her everywhere, I am going to be sober for that. I'm going to memorize her body like a crime scene, log it all into evidence, because I've learned you never know when it's going to be the last time. There's a tiny freckle an inch above her belly button, a scar from when her grandmother's nasty old cat bit her on the thigh, a ticklish spot on her right ribcage but weirdly not the left—it's all getting catalogued this time so I can never forget it. Because when someone is so obviously your person— _your fucking person_ —you memorize that shit.

We're just hanging on the swings, kind of dribbling around just due to gravity and not really trying to get anywhere. She's scraping her feet into the dirt aimlessly, or maybe it's some kind of Holly-shaped algorithm or a secret repeating pattern that only nerds understand.

What's going on in my mind? I mean, there's a fucking thousand thoughts clamoring all over each other trying to get to make a bee-line for my mouth first, and some of them should just stay the hell in there if they know what's good for them. Por ejemplo: _I love you. And loving someone wasn_ _'_ _t something I thought I could really do. I never wanted you to go. I never want you to leave again_. That thought keeps trying to climb the wall I constructed between my brain and my mouth, so I had to put armed guards in front of the wall, and eventually a rebel army. And so far the troops have good moral and they are keeping up their end of the bargain, but she's wearing down my defenses.

Cause it's so good to see her. To hear her voice. She held my hand on the walk here, and every muscle in my body simultaneously sighed with relief even while my heart was trying to explode out of my chest.

And she's so freaking cute. She's telling me about her San Francisco job right now and pushing her sexy librarian glasses up on her face. The one that she left me for and then quit for me. She's saying something about how good it felt to run her own lab and know that things are being done with the proper procedures, that she knew exactly where to find everything, and she got to decide when a case is closed and which hot blonde cops to make out with in her car on her lunch break. Wait. I'm not 100 percent sure about that last part.

But she's quiet now, and I think it's my turn to talk. But I really just want to keep looking at her mouth and all the sexy little twists and turns and shapes it makes when she's talking, like a smile just wants to interrupt her mid-sentence. But I should _really_ say something.

"Sounds like you really loved your job," I say.

But she's narrowing her eyes at me like I just said something either in French or completely obtuse. Both are strong possibilities since I sometimes slip into the French my mom forced me to speak fluently and since I can be completely obtuse.

"Are you listening to me?" she says, her head cocked to the side, like the skepticism just can't hold its ground on the other side of her head.

"Er, yes. I guess I'm honestly a little blown away that you're here, Holl," I say, in a statement that is both patently true and not relevant to the question she asked me. "I've been a little lost. I tried to focus all my attention on getting Sophie, and today that kind of took a turn. Like, a bad turn. So I don't think that's going to happen actually. I mean, it's not going to happen. They found a better family for her, so…"

I'm not going to cry.

Holly doesn't say anything, she just digs her feet into the dirt under her swing to stop all movement. She's a statue. Then she grabs my hand and holds it in her lap like it's a treasure a diver just discovered in the remains of the Titanic.

I'm not going to cry.

Holly still doesn't say anything. She just lifts my fingers to her lips and places the tiniest little kiss on my knuckles and looks at me not with pity but with so much compassion that I start to cry. Fuck. My shoulders are shaking, and I'm really sobbing. I'm really going for it.

Holly pulls me out of my swing and hauls me sideways on her lap like I'm a baby or at least a toddler. But I don't fight it. I bury my head in her hair and soak her jacket with my tears. And it feels incredible to just cry. Her arms are so tight around me. She's firm and loving and real.

"I'm so sorry, honey. I know how much you love her, how much you wanted to give her," she says, and I just nod into her hair because that's exactly it.

I have no idea how long we sat like that, but I cried long enough that I'm doing that really attractive hiccuping thing. I finally pull my head out of her hair and look at her, and she gives me this rueful smile that really does kill me. I know I must look amazing, all splotchy and tear-stained. But I also know she doesn't care.

"Common, let me walk you home," she says. "So you can finally put an end to this horrible day."

—-

Sophie was a curveball I wasn't expecting, but it makes me even more glad I'm here. I've only seen Gail like that once. That time at the hospital after her friends were shot. Every part of me is aching for her because she loved that little girl, and she deserved to have this go right for her.

She let me ramble for the last hour. I knew she wasn't really listening to me, but she's like that sometimes. Sometimes she just wants me to talk because it means she doesn't have to, and she can listen to the sound of my voice. And it amazes me. Maybe it's her lizard cop brain, but even when she's actively _not_ listening to me, she has incredible recall. Like, I'll think I have her stumped because I know she wasn't tuned into what I was saying, and I'll call her on it, only to have her recite back _exactly_ what I told her. It's both annoying and mind-blowing at the same time, kinda like Gail.

We're walking to her apartment. It's just a few blocks from here. She's lost in thought, I can tell, and I'm sure she just wants to go home to sleep. I can see how exhausted she is. I wonder if she'll remember all of this tomorrow. She's so upset that I'm thinking I'll have to give her some time to process all this—

"Stop it, Lunchbox," she says, grabbing my hand.

"Huh? Stop what?"

"You're thinking too loud. It's distracting," she says, winking at me as we stop in front of her apartment. I'm about to give her a hug and a kiss and tell her to get a good night sleep and promise to call her in the morning to check on her. But then she says this, and I fall in love. Again.

"Holly? I want you to come inside with me. I want to sleep in your arms. And before you tell me why that's not a good idea, I have two very good reasons. Reason number one: I miss sleeping in your arms. You have very nice, um, arms. Reason number two: If I sleep in your arms, when I open my eyes in the morning, I will immediately be assured that this was not a dream. And that means I won't have to put out an APB for you, which means less paperwork, which means less grumpy interns, which means I get my coffee delivered to me scalding hot, like hotter than the surface of the sun, which is how I like it, instead of lukewarm in styrofoam cup. And that means better police work. Which means a safer Toronto. So, you see, the City of Toronto and I need you to come upstairs with me, put on your pajamas or one of your stupid, weird wookie t-shirts, brush your teeth, and spoon the shit out of me. Ok?"

I raise my hand and open my mouth. I'm going to object because despite her adorable diatribe, I think she needs some time. But before I can speak, she interrupts me.

"Holly, when you were gone, my chest that used to be where my heart lived was just filled with a bunch of spare parts. But now you're back, and guess what?" she says, pulling my hand up to feel her beating heart. "So just please shut the fuck up and come upstairs with me, ok?"

I say nothing because there are no words. I just smile, let her take my hand, and guide me into her apartment. We walk inside, and it's crazy being here again. There's no one here, and it doesn't look like anyone has been here, so I make a mental note to ask her if this is still the cop frat house it used to be. It actually looks kind of like a grown up's apartment. There are no pizza boxes with notes written to each other on them, like GET MILK! or TAKE OUT THE TRASH, DOUCHEBAG, and there's actually a sconce on the wall and a very responsible-looking grocery list magneted to the fridge.

She leads me into her room, not bothering to turn on the lights, and pulls out a t-shirt from her drawer, tossing it to me with a grin. I open it, and it's my favorite med school t-shirt. How ironic of her. She stands there, watching me. So as platonically as I am capable, I unbutton my shirt and take it off, pulling _my_ shirt over my head. I slip out of my trainers and take of my socks. Then I pull off my pants. And then I wait.

—-

Oh _please_. She's trying to not be sexy right now. But it's not working. She could make my grandmother's wallpaper look sexy. But fine. Point taken. But _I_ don't have to be unsexy. I mean so what if I'm in the weird sweater my mom bought me with the leather collar, and my cheeks are swollen from crying, and my hair is matted to my head. I'm sexy, dammit. So I pull my sweater off, _sexily_. And I shimmy out of my pants, also sexily. Oops. I forgot to take off my shoes. So this is going to be a little less sexy for a second while I… Shit. She's laughing.

And I'm laughing too because my pants are down around my ankles, and I'm kind of on the floor, stuck, like a seal trying to get peanut butter off its nose.

Holly gets down the ground with me and pulls off my shoes and helps me out of my pants, and we're both crying/laughing, which is the best emotional combo platter. And then she's looking at me in my underwear, and her laughter kind of peters out like a steam engine chugging to a halt at the station. And now she's on top of me, kissing my mouth. She's being gentle, but I'm so hungry for her. We kiss like that—just soft lips remembering each other—for a long time. But I want more. I want to make love to her. I'm going to tell her. So she knows. I pry myself away from that mouth and look at her.

"Holly?"

"Yes, Gail."

"I want to make love to you," I say.

She closes her eyes and kind of groans, which I'd normally take as a pretty positive sign, but I can see she's going to shut me down right now. She's going to say she wants to take it slow and that I've had a really tough day, that we have all the time in the world. She's going to fill the air with all those sensible Holly words. And she's going to be right, of course, because we should just climb into bed together and curl up around each other and let the night relax into day. And take our time. But what I want to do is tangle my limbs with her limbs and bury my face and hands inside her. I want to cup her cheeks and trace her curves. I want to map out her skin. To forget. But also to remember. To discover her again. That's really all I want to do. But she's going to do the sensible thing, and I can't blame—

"Ok."

Well, shit.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for all the whispers and all the love for this story. How can you not love these two?

* * *

After Perik kidnapped me and all the fallout after Jerry's death, I went through a spell where I was having wicked nightmares every night. I'd wake up in a panic, feeling like I was suffocating, screaming with my heart pounding wildly in my chest and my sheets drenched in sweat. Super hot, I know. So one of the stupid therapists they made me see taught me how you can wake yourself out of dream, which was actually pretty decent of her.

She told me that dreams have certain permutations, distortions, and markings, so if you're in a droning, boring dream or a scary nightmare, you can take note of the weirdness and actually wake yourself up. For example, if you notice strange objects (candle holders made of trumpets or the appearance of random people who don't belong together, like, say Ghandi and your third grade teacher joining you for dinner without any explanation, you alert yourself that something isn't right, and you will wake up almost immediately. It's like you're sending your brain a text: _Hey dumbass, this isn_ _'_ _t real. Wake the fuck up_.

I got pretty good at it. So although it's been a very weird day, and Holly has dropped in unexpectedly from my past and agreed to have sex with me (also unexpectedly), without Mickey Mouse knocking on my bedroom door and offering his services for a three-way, for the moment I'm inclined to believe that this is actually happening. But I'm on high alert. No matter how hot Holly is or how much I want to be here right now, at the first sign of a Disney character in my bed, I'm out.

So I wait a beat after Holly accepts my proposal for an honest to god reality check. But once I've come to the conclusion that this is really happening, my face immediately turns a shade of scarlet that might make Holly think I'm having a stroke, which happens to people like me who are distant descendants of a little-known tribe of Canadian Albinos. It always happens in the worst moments because it gives away everything when you are trying your best to give away nothing.

And I admit it. I didn't expect her to say that. For a nerd, Holly is remarkably good at surprising me. Like the first time she planted one on me in the coat closet at the wedding. I sat there dumbstruck for about 10 minutes after she had already left (to go dancing?). And when I cut off all my hair, and she just calmly put me in her bathtub, cleaned up my new lesbian haircut, turned on the shower, and started kissing me. That was surprising. And I was pretty much stunned when she showed up at the station waving a fake report with some bullshit cover story about my "inconsistent paperwork," and attacked me in interrogation room 5. It takes a lot to shock me. I'm a cop. I'm a Peck. And plus, no one has ever cared enough to really try. But Holly does.

So I'm surprised. I expected her to exercise restraint. Somehow she still fools me with her red lunchbox and her nerdy glasses, but really she's kind of a risk taker, and I love it.

She's quirking a sideways smile at me, and I just want to drown in her. And now, in addition to my red face and wet underwear, suddenly my palms are sweaty, like 15-year-old boy at the dance sweaty.

"Are you sure, Holl?" I whisper, because I need to be certain this is what she wants.

She pulls off her glasses and folds them neatly, placing them on the floor next to us. She drops her head to tent against my forehead and nudges her nose into my cheek like a dog might, her dark hair curtaining us together in this moment that feels like the most intimate moment of my life.

"Gail, all these months, while I was away from here, away from you… you were all I could think about. I'd be in the crunchy lesbian grocery store, staring at 27 brands of soy milk, and I couldn't move because your blue eyes are just burning a hole through my brain. I'd be running in Golden Gate Park, and instead of looking at the ocean or the Japanese Tea Garden or the hippy drumming circle, I would just be thinking about the shape of your mouth," she says, touching her fingers to my lips for impact.

And it's working. Her words are slow and fluid, and they fill the holes and soothe the wounds I didn't know were there.

"Your body, your voice, your weird sense of humor, your tomato allergy, your pathetic, girly swing at the batting cage, your sweetness with kids, how you look in your police uniform, your smirk, your pout, your 10,000-watt smile. All of it. These things about you would just circle through me like those fucking animation things… you know those things from the early days where they'd put the progression of the images in sequence and you'd look through—"

"—Zoetrope." _Duh_.

She pulls back to look at me, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide like Bambi. But hot. So not Bambi.

"That's what I mean. You're amazing. And you're all that I want," she says, forking her fingers through my bangs so she can see all of my face.

I feel as naked as I've ever felt. But I'm weirdly unafraid.

"Gail, I quit my dream job. I flew back here with no idea if you were with someone else or if you still want me. I don't have a job or a place to live. So am I sure? I don't think I've ever been more sure of anything ever."

And there she goes, surprising me again.

* * *

It amazes me how Gail can go from being the aggressor to vulnerable right before your eyes. She can be so tough and assured—cocky even—and then she's suddenly almost childlike, and I feel a fierce and desperate need to protect her. Or sometimes it can go the other way. She will seem scared and shrunken, and suddenly she's a temptress, prowling toward you, pulling you in. And you don't know what hit you. I have no idea if she's like this with everyone, but I like to think it's just with me.

And I just watched it happen. She was seducing me, ready to claw my clothes off with her teeth, and it was working because on her worst day Gail is the most effortlessly sexy woman I have ever met. Like an old school bombshell, but snarky. Which is my thing, apparently.

And now she seems unsure, eyes bluer than I've ever seen them. But when it comes to Gail I learned that I have to listen to my gut. Like at the Penny that night when Rachel called her a beat cop and she walked out on me. My gut was telling me to chase her down—hell, I'm a way faster runner than she is—pin her to the wall, and just tell her everything. I should have told her then. I blew it. But I'm not going to blow it now.

So I climb off her and stand up. I offer her a hand to help her, and she takes it and gets to her feet. Then I pull her in and wrap my arms around the skin of her waist as tight as I can, locking my hands to my elbows to let her know I have no intension of going anywhere. She burrows into me, and I can feel her shaking a little bit.

"Gail?" I say, pivoting my chin down to look at her.

She keeps her eyes away from me, but she whispers one word, and I know she's ok.

"Happy," she says.

I pull away and grab her hand, walking backwards toward her bed. When I can feel the mattress behind me, I drop down, pulling Gail with me until she's straddling my hips. She looks down at me, and I'm not sure what I'm seeing in her eyes.

"Gail, I love you. I've loved you for such a long time. I'm so sorry I left."

She blushes a little (which kills me), and then she slides her hands around to the bottom of my scalp, scraping her blunt fingernails along the hairs at the back of my neck.

"It's ok," she says. "Thank you for coming back."

I grin. I can't help it. And now, there it is again. She's got that predatory look in her eyes. The wave of vulnerable sweetness is washed away by the incoming tide of dogged desire. There's a metallic taste in my mouth from how badly I want her. It's all I can do to keep my hands still at the small of her back.

But then she reaches behind her and unsnaps her bra and lets it fall down her arms and drop to the floor. And she's gloriously right there before me. I let my eyes roam along the long stretches of pale, beautiful skin interrupted by scars of callous indifference to safety and from the moments that still haunt me of when others hurt her. She smiles at me, lasciviously, and I hear a whimper. I know it came from me, but I want all of her in my mouth at once, so at least it wasn't a growl. I know she's loving this, making me want her desperately. So I pull my t-shirt over my head, toss it to the floor in the direction of her bra, and I'm naked too. Because two can play at this game.

* * *

I played chess with Holly once. Just once. Because just when you think you've got her dead to rights, she turns the tables on you. Makes a power move from a position of weakness. But that's ok; that's why I fell for her.

But also because her body. _Jesus_. She is so smooth and long and lean, and I give my hands permission to run free on all the surfaces of her skin, from the column of her neck, across her collar bone, along her sides, up her stomach (sit-ups must be mandatory in San Francisco), and then finally, finally, my hands on her breasts. I'm looking down at my own hands covering her breasts, and it's making me wet. She makes a raspy sound from deep in her throat, which also makes me wet. I pinch her nipples, and she chokes out my name. Which is all I could ever want.

By the time her nipple is in my mouth, Holly is panting and moaning, responding to everything I'm doing to her in a way that no one—not ever her—ever has before. I know it's a combination of the anticipation of this moment and because it's probably been a little while since she's gotten some, but with one of Holly Stewart's breasts in my mouth and my hand creeping into her underwear, I'm not about to question it. My hand begins to wander and swirl in her wetness, but even sex goddesses need a little more room to work.

I push her shoulders back on the bed and kneel so I can pull her underwear down her legs, which seem to run the length of the Victoria Bridge. She pulls herself up on her elbows to watch me, so I guess it's show time.

"Lunchbox, is this ok?" I say as I settle between her legs.

"Oh, god," she says, which I'll take as a yes.

This might seem kind of forward, but I want to see all of her, so I push her thighs apart and back so she's completely giving herself to me. She finally feels like mine again, and I'm going to show her. I press my face against her, moaning into her pussy, my nose nudging up against her clit with intension.

I chance a quick look at her to make sure this is working for her, and she's watching me with her eyes half closed and her mouth hanging open. Whatever I'm doing seems to be working.I start licking at her clot like a cat, pressing the flat of my tongue against her.

"More," she says, which I am fine with.

I'm not sure what possesses me, but I pinch her clit, kind of hard, with two fingers. With my other hand I plunge two digits inside her, and she gasps. She likes that.

"Gail. God, Gail, do it harder. Don't stop."

Stop? Oh hell no.

I start thrusting into her, and honestly I forgot how incredible it is to be inside her body. I know we have the same parts, but she's so soft and wet that Holly almost feels like a different species of woman.

"Gail, come up here. Kiss me."

I lay my body on top of hers and we kiss—long and slow. And then suddenly I feel myself doing something other than trying to give her an orgasm. I'm trying to convey how I feel, which is something I've never done during sex. Or any other time for that matter. My hand inside her is trying to say, _it means everything to me that you_ _'_ _re here_. My body that's holding firm the writhing body under me is trying to say, _I want to stay with you for as long as you_ _'_ _ll have me_. And my kisses… they are saying the one thing I've never told her.

She's so close, her walls clenching and grabbing at my fingers, her eyes squinted shut, her breath quick and staccato.

"Holly?" I whisper. She cracks her eyes open and looks at me. "I have loved you all this time."

Her breath catches in her throat, the emotion of the moment and the power of her orgasm pulling her body under, and she writhes and cries out and heaves in a moment of pure ecstasy that I promise you I won't ever forget. When her breathing evens out and her body stops shaking, I collect her in my arms. There are tiny tears at the corners of her eyes. I brush her hair back and smooth her cheek and give her a big fucking smile. And she cracks a sideways grin cause she knows what I'm thinking.

Check mate, be-actch.


	4. Chapter 4

I can't get enough of these two characters. This story feels really personal and intimate. And I also so appreciate the response. XO —J

* * *

Holly once told me she suspects that her body's hypothalamus is extremely active during sex. I obviously asked her where her hypothalamus was and if I could put my mouth on it. But she looked at me blithely and explained in her calm nerd voice that the hypothalamus is the control part of the brain that regulates temperature, hunger, thirst, and tiredness. There she went, trying to blame science for as the reason she's always dying of thirst after her fourth orgasm and almost immediately passes out on top of me.

But as I lay here holding her in my arms, I can't help but think that my hypothalamus must be broken because instead I'm drowning in a whole shitload of oxytocin. They call that the cuddle hormone, or at least that's what Holly says. Gross, I know. You know how something like two-thirds of the population hates the word "moist?" That's how I used to feel about the word "cuddle." Just the word, much less the activity itself. And really, I normally just want to be left the fuck alone after sex. Especially with my ex-boyfriend Nick. After Nick was done, he'd roll over to his side of the bed and immediately start sawing wood, and nothing could have made me happier.

But with Holly I'm relegated to a pile of steaming mush, and all I can do while she blissfully sleeps is lay my hands on her, memorize the lines of her, count the freckles, try to climb inside her pores, and wonder when I became a person who could fall this hopelessly in love with another person.

So Holly fell asleep a while ago, but I am just laying here watching her like a creeper. About an hour ago we were talking about apartment hunting. She was telling me that she was actually contemplating checking out Queen West because she said she's always wanted to live among the hipsters. I was like, _No fucking way_ because that's too much cheer and DIY and glitter for me.

But then she said a friend just gave up an apartment around Kensington Market that she could take, and that perked me up because the best schwarma place in Toronto is over there. There's also this place in that 'hood that sells Chilean empanadas stuffed with beef and egg and raisins, which sounds totally disgusting, I know, but it's actually to die for.

Again, too many happy people over there, but if Holly is one of them I guess I could suck up visiting her occasionally in her new apartment.

When I said that, she kind of looked up at me like she was going to say something, like something was on the tip of her tongue but she was afraid to say it. I totally called her on it.

"Holly, in the last 30 hours or so, you have given up your job, flown across the continent and three time zones, hunted me down, confessed your love, and put your hands and tongue inside my body. Now is not the time to clam up."

She just looked at me and shot me one of her bemused, close-lipped smiles. So I left it. I don't want to be presumptuous, but I'm wondering if she was going to ask me if I'd want to move in with her at some point. And I kind of wish she had asked me because, while that would have scared the shit out of me last time around and I would have been all cat-up-a-tree about it, now I have a second chance. And this time, if I could somehow manage to get the word to make their way from the dominant hemisphere of my brain to my mouth, if Holly had asked me what I wanted from her, I know exactly what I would have said.

* * *

I'm pretty sure Gail thinks I'm sleeping, but I know she's watching me. She does that. And I've always found it so endearing that sometimes, I admit, I pretend to fall asleep. When I lay with my head on her chest or curl up against her, once I heavy my breathing, Gail will randomly touch parts of me, trace little patches of skin, aimlessly curl a strand of my hair around her finger, or murmur something unintelligible. And other than the seconds leading up to an orgasm, when she loses control completely, these moments feel like the only ones in which Gail lets her guard completely down. And I'm not about to miss it.

People say Gail is hard and unlovable—all snark and no substance—but they are so fucking wrong. I had this high school teacher in 10th grade, Mrs. Leopold. Everyone called her an evil bitch, but I loved her because she was the one that got me obsessed with biology. The woman was absolutely fascinated by the subject, and it was infectious, so even though she was a total hard ass, I found myself completely enthralled. We had this one unit on animal defense mechanisms, and I was floored by their innate ability and instinct to defend themselves against their mortal threats and enemies.

Like the Texas Horned Lizard—it has one of the bloodiest self-defense mechanisms in the animal kingdom. When its threatened, the lizard pressures its sinus cavities until the blood vessels in its eyes actually burst, shooting its attacker with a steady stream of blood from its eyes. I know, it's disgusting, but also kind of amazing.

It sounds kind of obvious, but Gail is really a lot like a porcupine. She's so adorable and cuddly looking, but when she feels threatened, she can _really_ hurt you. In fact, Gail is responsible for some of the worst hurt I've ever experienced in my life. And it's oftentimes not what she says that hurts—it's the radio silence. Her ability to just walk away, to turn you off, to erase you makes you feel like you meant nothing to her. Which is kind of excruciating. Because she means everything to you.

When she wouldn't return my texts or calls after that night at the Penny, I started writing letters to her in my journal. I knew she'd never see them, but I just had to get it out. At the time I was hating myself because I had been so careful to be casual, to not put too much pressure on her, to not chase her away, that I somehow didn't convey how much she meant to me.

So I started writing these letters—I have at least six or seven of them—and I have to admit I bled on those pages. But she was raised to go for the jugular, and she's endured so much hurt herself that I can't blame her. Still, before we get to far out of the gate this time, I have to know she won't do that to me again. Because I'm not sure how I'll recover the next time.

Maybe it's because of the vulnerable state I found her in or how much I've missed her, but I've found it difficult since I got here to breast my cards. And I know I'm already exposed. Just a few minutes ago, I was telling her about the apartment I'm thinking of renting in Kensington Market—a gorgeous, spacious three-bedroom with wood floors and high ceilings just a few blocks from the park—and I almost asked her. I almost said, "move in with me, Gail." It's what I wanted to say. I want her with me. But something in my brain reminded me to just hang on for a second. I should slow the fuck down before I wind up impaled on some porcupine quills.

But for all my toughness, she's thumbing my exposed cheek, and I can feel her eyes just burning right through me, and it makes me want to drop all my own defenses and let her have me, mortal injuries be damned.

Then suddenly she squeezes my nose between her two fingers and tweaks it—hard. I let out a squeak and my eyes shoot open, and I know the jig is up.

* * *

"Ow! What the hell, Gail?" Holly says, acting all innocent.

"I call bullshit! How many times have you done that?"

"Done _what_?" Holly says, shifting her body to peer over at me with narrowed eyes.

"You know what."

"Enlighten me," she says. She's pretending to be annoyed, but I can see her eyes are smiling. She knows she's caught.

"Pretended to be asleep."

Holly's face cracks into a huge, face-eating smile, which takes me off my game because this seems to also have the effect off flooding my body with oxytocin or some other shit that makes me forget my own name. Just as I'm seriously pondering if she's implanted something in my brain or hypnotized me somehow, she straddles my hips and traps my hands over my head, dropping her face right above mine.

"What makes you think I was pretending to be asleep, Gail?"

"Holly, I'm a cop. And if I really gave a shit, I could be a detective. You have so many tells, it's not even funny. Your breathing changed, your eyes were shifting back and forth like you were thinking about something, which I know you were. So just admit it."

I could totally get out of her grip right now, but she's naked and gorgeous and her center is rubbing pleasantly against my belly button, so I have not plans to go anywhere in this century.

She drops a kiss on me but her lips are still quirked in a smile, which makes _me_ smile, despite myself.

"Fine. I'm caught. I may have done that a few times before," she says, her cheeks reddening slightly.

"Why would you do that, Holly?"

Now she's blushing like fucking Santa Claus, so I can't wait to hear this. Her smile drops, and she pins me with an almost painfully sincere look.

"It feels like when you think I'm sleeping you let yourself love me unabashedly, in full light, and it feels amazing. I'm sorry. I guess that is a little unfair of me," Holly says, tilting her head slightly to check my response more scientifically.

Tears spring to my eyes like treacherous little fuckers because the fact that she's had to fake sleeping to feel my love for her is the most heartbreaking thing I can imagine. I'm going to fix this shit right now. I'm done sabotaging this relationship, my own happiness, and playing into everyone else's bullshit plans and ideas about who I am or who I should be.

I pry away my hands and sit up fully against the headboard, pulling Holly with me so we're upright, settled into each other.

"Lunchbox, I can't change who I am. But I have a plan. Do you want to hear it?"

Holly just nods, a little unsure.

"I'm going to admit to myself who I am and who I am not. Then I'm going to take all the voices in my head and all the fears about what might happen if I actually let someone see who I am and douse them with gasoline and light a match, and I'm going to stand over it and watch it burn. I'm going to admit when I want something and go after it—whether it's Detective or Sophie or you—and I'm not going to let my mom or fear of failure get in my way. Then I'm going to ask you to ask me to move in with you in Hippyville or wherever the fuck. You know why, Holly?"

Holly lets out a tiny gasp and shakes her head no.

"Because of phase II of my plan. Do you want to hear about phase II?"

She nods again like a marionette, which makes me laugh a little in spite of the fact that I'm building up to some St. Crispin's Day Shakespeare shit here, and that kind of ruins my mojo.

"Phase II is all about me accepting the fact that you are more likely than not the love of my fucking dumb life, and even if I don't deserve you and your doctor brain and your shiny black hair, I am smart enough to know I am lucky to have you. So I'm going to thank the Sky People or Muhammed or Buddha, and I'm going to love you, hard. Like really hard. And out loud. I'm going to say a little prayer every night that when I let you see _everything_ that you don't get tired of me, of my dangerous job that I love, of my attitude, of the fact that I hate matching the socks so they tend to sit in baskets around the room, of the fact that I say mean things sometimes because my mouth moves faster than my brain or my heart."

"Holly, you remember that day when I came to the lab with the thumb?"

Holly, who now has wide, wet, incredulous eyes, fucking nods again.

"I said I didn't want to be a sad, sorry woman who realized she threw away the most wonderful person she ever met. And I've known since that moment that if I somehow had a chance to have you back in my life that I wouldn't take it for granted and I wouldn't run from it and I wouldn't let it go. So I might still fuck it up, but I won't be because I didn't try."

"So there's just one thing I need from you, Lunchbox. If I'm not conveying the fact that you own my heart, that you get me, that you are everything, keep your eyes open. Don't pretend to be asleep. Tell me. Just push me up against the wall and ask me what the hell I want from you, and I will tell you. Will you do that for me?"

Holly lets out a deep sigh, like she's expelling the weight of the world, and she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me in for a slow, aching kiss. Then she pulls back, her eyes still shining with tears.

"What do you want from me, Gail?"

"Everything, Lunchbox. I want it all."

Then Holly's stomach growls. Loudly. I guess sex isn't the only thing that activates her hypothalamus.


	5. Chapter 5

Happy New Year everybody. How about a little Golly love before we get back to reality. Just writing these two makes me happy. Hope you like. XO

* * *

I've only helped someone else move one time in my life. Doing things for strangers (or friends even) out of the goodness of my heart isn't really my thing. But this is different.

First of all, if Holly's new apartment is going to be my home too, I have to help make some key decisions. You know, like where my favorite COP A FEEL coffee mug is going to live, the safest spot for my PlayStation 4 where no one will interrupt me when I play "Far Cry," (which is mostly when humanity has driven me to want to shoot at things without all the paperwork that comes with actual dead bodies), and the most likely spot for Holly to hide the sex toys that she doesn't know I know she has so I can torment her later. Stuff like that. Then I have rub my fur on everything, make sure I leave my Gail Peck pheromones on as many surfaces as possible for any would-be hot lesbians who might happen by and want to have sex with my girlfriend.

Plus, I _want_ to help her. The last two weeks have been the comprised of the kind of days and nights that you could make a killer romantic comedy love montage with. Flash to holding hands at the park, flash to Holly nearly peeing in her pants laughing when I did my best Jar Jar impression, flash to kissing in the shower, flash to making love in the kitchen, the bedroom, and the laundry room, flash to me asleep in her arms, a tiny smile on her lips.

With each passing day, I'm starting to feel a little more like a superhero, and my power is not giving a shit about the mundane crap that is usually the pea under my mattress that just perturbs me, keeps me from finding my happy place. People usually just piss me off. But right now, nothing really can. Captain Untouchable.

I was paired with Price on Tuesday, and she didn't shut the fuck up for four hours on patrol. And I didn't even care. My mom called on Thursday, and I think I was actually kind of nice to her. I even asked to speak to my dad so I could apologize to him for my indecisiveness at the courthouse. He's still pissed, but he'll come around, or at least that's what Holly says. Twice I got stuck doing paperwork, and Nash caught me humming the second time, but I just shrugged, and I didn't even blush.

No matter how annoying or shitty my day was going, I knew that in just a matter of hours I'd be with her, possibly naked, possibly eating my favorite Thai take out of the containers in my apartment, possibly watching _The Empire Strikes Back_ or _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ —her favorite and mine, respectively—or, quite possibly, sitting on the floor in my room with her head in my lap talking about everything, or nothing, and feeling completely whole.

Because that's the biggest thing. It's hard to remember now, but when this whole thing started, I loved it because it had been an long goddamn time since I had a real friend. Someone who got me, who took me seriously but not, like, too seriously. Someone who called me on my shit. Someone who looked out for me. Since the very first moment in the woods when she strolled into my crime scene like she owned the place, she never once looked at me the way everybody else does—like I'm some frigid freak of nature who doesn't have the same compassion genes as normal humans. Being Holly's friend is almost as incredible as being her girlfriend. _Almost_.

And three days ago, Holly got her job back with a little extra cash thrown in, so everything was coming together, in what would have felt completely improbably just a few weeks ago.

So I was pretty geeked up this morning. I had helped her clean the new apartment with about 12 bottles of Windex and Pine Sol. I brought a couple of lemon blossom candles, because she loves the way that stuff smells, and we lit them around the house so when she moved in it would smell like her. And then today we were going to move her in as soon as I got off my shift.

And now, it's 4:52. I am on patrol with just eight minutes to pay dirt. And of course, the radio crackles to life.

"Reported vehicle 10-80 on Gardiner eastbound near exit 64B. Black Nissan Altima, license plate HMV 845. Fire and ambulance on the way. Officer in the vicinity?"

"Shit. Price, that's us. We should check it out," I tell Chloe, pulling my radio from my shoulder harness to call in our location. "10-4. 8727 en route."

I pull on my flame retardant vest and help Price into hers as she drives. Just three minutes later, we can see the flames coming from the engine of a car that had flipped over the guardrail on the right shoulder of the highway, settled awkwardly on its side. We must have been the closest rescue vehicle because there's no fire truck or ambulance here yet. So I hop out of the patrol car and run over the car to see if there are passengers. But since the car is pitched on its side, I have to climb up on the tire to get a look in the passenger window. The good news is, there's no one in there. The bad news is…

"Price! I smell gas! Stay back! Clear the—"

Fuck.

* * *

It's 7:38, and I'm trying not to freak out. I texted her twice. Once around 6:30 ( _Hey, you forget where my new place is?_ ) and once at 7 ( _You better not be saving a cat in a tree!?_ ). I'm desperately trying not to be that girl. I work around cops all the time. Hell, I dated one. I know how it gets sometimes. But this was a big night for us, kind of a milestone. Either she's blowing me off or something happened to her, and really, both of those scenarios are making my stomach turn.

Rachel owed me a big favor or two, so she called a few of her friends to help me get all my boxes into the apartment and into the right rooms. It's a three-bedroom, and the one we picked for the master bedroom is the biggest one with a quirky little loft. It took about four hours today to get the furniture and boxes in, and I organized and worked in the kitchen till about 5. Then Gail was going to show up after her shift around 5:30 with food, and we were going to eat and then unpack the bedroom.

We woke up this morning at her place, and I could tell she was a little bit nervous, but normal nervous, not Gail-sized nervous. On an average day, I talk incessantly, and she looks at me like she's taking bets with herself on when I'm going to shut the hell up. Except today, she was the talker.

We were laying there in her bed—she was still curled around me with her nose buried into the back of my neck.

"Holly? Are you awake?"

"No."

"Oh," she said. And then she was quiet for about 30 seconds. "Are you sure about this?"

"Am I sure I'm still asleep? Yes, I was. But now I'm not so sure."

"Are you sure about us? You want to live with me? Because I'm—"

"High maintenance, I know," I grumbled.

"Pfft. Takes one to know one," she said, tweaking my hip. "I'm serious, Lunchbox. Is this… you want this, right?"

I turned in her arms because I could hear the uncertainty. Her eyes were so blue, it was almost jarring.

"More than anything, Gail. I want to start every day with you, just like this," I said, kissing her cheek.

"Ok. That's good. Me too," she said, giving me a little smile, the kind that's just for me. The kind I can put in my pocket and carry with me the rest of the day. She had an early shift, so with that, we got up. She showered, and I made coffee, which I handed her in her favorite doubled-walled to-go mug because she likes her coffee burn-your-tongue hot.

That was almost 12 hours ago.

Now there's a ticker running through my mind of things I never told her, all the parts of her I never touched, all the questions I never asked. And I hate this. I hate having a panic attack because my girlfriend is late, but because she's a cop and her job is dangerous, and because she's Gail, and she's scared of her shadow sometimes, I'm spooked. I stare at the phone in front of me, willing it to ring but also praying that it won't.

I don't know how much time goes by, but eventually it does, and I'm almost too scared to see who it is or what it says. I pick it up on the fourth ring.

It's Oliver. And my heart plummets directly into the ground floor apartment below me.

"Hello," I say, my voice flat and guarded.

"Holly, hi, it's Oliver Shaw," he says.

"Is she ok?" I say. His voice is steady, but he's a cop, so he's used to delivering tough news.

"Listen, Holly. There was an explosion in an abandoned car nearby, and Gail was thrown during the blast. But don't worry, darlin', our girl is ok. A little scraped up, but mostly she's just worried about you," he says, and his voice is achingly kind, which weirdly makes me feel worse. "So I told her I'd give you a call and let you know what's up. She's being treated for her cuts and a couple of superficial burns, but I'm going to bring her to you in about an hour. All right?"

I think my brain shorted out at _explosion_.

"Holly?"

"Yes, I'm here. Uh, I can come get her. You don't have to—"

"I'll bring her to you, all right?"

I nod, realizing too late that he can't see me.

"Holly, are you ok, hon?"

"I uh, I'm just… I… I'm scared. I love her."

"I know. Don't worry. She's fine. She's as tough as they come. And she loves you too much to let anything happen to her. She's stubborn, that one."

"Thanks, Oliver."

I hang up the phone. Then I run up the stairs to empty the contents of my stomach.

* * *

Considering I was thrown about five meters at full blast and landed on my rump in the grass, I feel pretty good. I mean achy, but I've felt way worse. Or at least my body has. A bunch of little cuts and bruises and a few little burns, but all of that will heal up pretty fast. Captain Untouchable and all.

But my heart is scrunched up in a little ball and my stomach is doing some Cirque du Soleil shit in there.

I'm not sure what I'm bracing for exactly, but I just have a feeling. And the closer we get to Holly's apartment, the more uneasy I feel. Will she be spooked and want to run like hell? I mean, I guess that's what I'm expecting because—lets be real—this was too good to be true. The woman I've secretly loved all this time, my best friend, leaves her dream job in San Francisco to make a life with me because she realizes she made a terrible mistake by leaving? I mean, I have bruises all over my body from where I've been pinching myself for weeks now.

And I've learned in my life the other shoe is the most reliable thing. It's the one thing you can count on. It always drops. Always.

Ollie pulls up into a visitor's spot at Holly's new apartment complex—a building that looks a little "rustic" (her word, not mine) on the outside, but feels like home once you get in the building. He helps me out and tugs my hand to get me to move away from his truck toward the door. But my feet are like lead. I can't help but think about how I couldn't wait to get here all day, all week, and maybe much, much longer than that, and now I just feel a foreboding sense of doom that weighs a ton.

We walk up to 2G, and Oliver knocks on the door. Or maybe that's just my heart pounding in my chest. Just as she approaches, he leans over and kisses my cheek, saying, "She's not going anywhere. She loves you."

But I keep picturing that face she made at the Penny when I was so awful to her, when I walked out. I remember how she registered the hurt so slowly, like the muscles didn't want to believe what her brain already knew. So I'm bracing for that face.

But she opens the door, and that's not her face. Her hair is pulled up high in a ponytail, which I've never seen, and she's tear-stained. So she looks so young and vulnerable, but not hurt and not mad. She looks tender and afraid.

Oliver guides us inside and gives Holly a warm smile.

"Hey, Holly."

"Hi, Oliver. Thanks for bringing her."

"Of course. All right, Peck. You're in good hands. I'm going to head out. Don't come to work tomorrow, Peck. Heal up. Bye, darlin'."

"Bye, Ollie," I say, watching him disappear back through the door. I want to move, but my feet and eyes seem magnetically drawn to this one spot on floorboard below me.

Holly stands in front of me and regards me. She points a long arm toward a kitchen chair.

"Sit, Peck."

So I do. I sit awkwardly in one of the chairs, waiting. Waiting for her to do something, although I have no idea what.

I feel her hands, first at the back of my neck along my hairline, then up along my skull, down my shoulder and arm and then on the other side.

"Holly, I already had—"

"Not by me."

Her voice is so firm that I don't dare move. She checks the bandages and the wounds, tightening the tape on one particular cut that she must have deemed unworthy. She does this, and I just keep still, my breathing shallow and my movements minimal. Finally she comes to my face.

She starts her hands at my forehead and drags her fingers lightly across a bruised cheekbone, tilting it into the light for a better view. And then she stills, and the narrow of her eyes and the tautness of her expression all softens like a candle near the fire. Then she climbs on my lap and tips my chin up with her fingertips so I will meet her eyes. I'm almost afraid to admit to myself that there's only one thing I see there in those brown eyes. No anger, no frustration, no regret. And then I remember again that she's so much braver than me.

She dips down and kisses the cut above my right eye, dusts her lips to the bruise on my cheek, and finally drops a lingering kiss on my lips.

And I can feel myself shaking a little because it's just now sinking in how scared I am to lose her, how it would ruin me now.

"Gail," she says, drawing out my name to a syllable and a half. "I love you. Never let me lose you."

"Ok," I say. And I mean it.

At that, her eyes fill with tears, and she buries her head in my chest. I let her stay there for a minute, just letting my hands linger under her ponytail. But then, suddenly, I want to see her face.

"Are you ok," I whisper.

She looks up at me, offering a wistful but Holly-ish crooked smile.

"It hurts," she says simply.

"What does, Holl?"

"Loving you this much. It… sometimes it hurts."

And I know exactly what she means. So I gently push her off my lap, stand up, and take her hand. She looks at me curiously, but she doesn't say anything. I lead her into the living room where about a dozen boxes are stacked up along the perimeter. The couch is angled at about a 45 degrees in its temporary configuration, so I open a box labeled blankets, and I pull out a big blue fleece throw that usually sits in a basket next to the couch. I lay it on the floor, and move back to Holly who is standing, confounded, roughly where the oversized love seat is going to be. I walk right up to her and kiss her, slipping my tongue into her mouth to let her know this isn't some kind of weird, footless picnic I have planned.

"What are you doing?" she says, quite reasonably.

"I'm going to make it hurt less. Because I want loving me to feel good, the way it feels to love you," I say.

She lets out this weird, gasping breath, and I'm not sure if I've said the right thing or the wrong thing. But I peel off her clothes—all of them. And I immediately suck on her nipples like my life depends on it, and she doesn't seem to have an objection, so I guess it was ok.

* * *

How could someone who so consistently says the wrong things sometimes say the most right thing possible? About 45 seconds ago, sex was about the furthest thing from my mind. But now I'm naked, laying on a blanket in the middle of my new living room that resembles a warehouse, and all I can think of is having her fingers and tongue inside me.

And she's touching me and doing all the right things, and I want her. But I want her in the moment with me. She seems too far away, too into her head. So I stop her, and I pull us both up so we're kneeling, and I take off her t-shirt, bra, sweatpants, and underwear, which she must have changed into at the hospital. Her cuts and bruises look so stark against her pale skin.

I ghost my fingers up her ribcage and back down her back, meeting her eyes.

"Does this hurt you?"

She shakes her head no and tips her head back, showing me her neck, kind of submissively. So I suck at that spot that she loves, and it makes her moan. I lay back down, and I coax her into my body, her thigh pressed between mine, which is making me throb.

She kisses me long and hard, her tongue swishing reverently in my mouth, and her fingers pinch my nipples, and I'm just wet. Gail starts to kiss down my body, but I tuck a hand under her arm and pull her back up to me. She lands back on me so our bodies are pressed tightly together, so warm, so soft. And just this. Just this right here, when an hour ago I thought I might have lost her. This feels like everything.

"What's wrong?" Gail asks me.

"Nothing. I just want you close to me."

"Duh. I'm hot. But are you ok, Holl?"

"Yes. Kiss me."

And she does. She kisses me with those pouty lips that I dreamt about while I was gone, and my core feels like it might burst if she doesn't touch me. But she does. Her fingers drift down to my clit, and she presses down on it with one hand, her other hand wound tightly around the back of my neck. And when she slides two fingers inside me and begins to thrust into me, she doesn't stop kissing my mouth.

When she adds a third finger, and I moan and moan and moan her name into her mouth, she kisses me still. And when her fingers are buried inside me to the hilt, her thumb bumping lazily at my clit, her mouth stays firmly on mine. It's only when I cum, crying out, arching into her, that she pulls back a fraction to watch me, her eyes finding mine for the most intimate moment of my entire life.

With her fingers still deep within, she drops one last kiss on me and then lets her head drop to my shoulder.

"I'm staying," she says, her voice gravelly and tight. "Right here."

And that's where we spend the first night in our new apartment together, wound together tightly on Blanket Island, as it comes to be known, among the boxes with all my stuff, with all the promise of the future.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry it's been a little while. Was hoping to get this to you in time for Valentine's Day, but I'm about 24 hours late. I had no idea when I started writing this chapter that this is where it would end up, but this story has a mind of it's own. Love that you guys are still keeping this couple alive. They are still great. I love hearing from you.

* * *

It was the absence of it that woke me up. Normally, right around the time the sun begins to creep in through the cracks in our curtains, the ones Holly dragged me with her to pick out as if I give a shit about the color of our curtains, I can feel her breath on my neck. My hair is short, you know, and she likes to jam her nose into the spot right under my hairline, just above the notch in my spine, so it's usually these little puffs of hot air back there that wake me up.

And then sometimes, when she wants to make love to me, I'll feel the arm that's slung across me come to life like a sleepy snake, and a warm hand is suddenly pressed against my stomach. Then the nose behind me will turn to lips, and I'll feel her grin against me, that crooked smile that says, _I love that I get to wake up next to you each morning_. She'll rouse me gently with tiny whispers and soft fingers that turn my body and brain to a mushy mess.

It always hurts a little because all that unfiltered love coming in through my ears and my pores—it floods my system and overwhelms me, and all I can do is let it break me into a million little shards of glass and then put me back together. In those tiny morning hours, my defenses are down, and I surrender myself to her completely, and I have come to fear and live for those moments in equal measure.

She'll work me and work me, her hand finding its way between my legs, the other at my breast, her body warm and glued to mine until eventually the squeaks and cries of pleasure and need don't even sound like they are coming from me. And they're not mine—they're hers. She owns them. She'll moan her own pleasure as I relinquish myself, and a cascade of dark hair will scatter across my shoulder as she leans in. And it's fucking everything.

But right now my eyes fly open simply because there's no hot breath behind me. There's no palm at my ribcage or curious fingers inside me. And I know if I turn around, she won't be there. And nothing—nothing—has ever felt emptier than our bed right now.

Her absence is bad enough, but as the memory of the night comes back in scattered pieces, I get the pleasure of remembering, yet again, that I am a coward and a dumbass, and I may have fucked up the only thing that matters to me.

I feel hot tears jab at my eyes and bile rise in my throat. This is how it always goes. But no. _Fuck that_. I'm going to fix this. Because I may not be perfect, but I am determined, and I'm not going to lose her again. I'm going to fix this.

* * *

I have no idea how long I've been in the shower, but the fact that it's starting to get cold tells me that it's been a long time. Or maybe Rachel just doesn't have that much hot water at her fancy apartment. But neither the 6-mile run I went on at dawn or the long talk with Rach before she left for work did made a dent in the ache in my chest, so I'm loathe to give up on this shower. Because I don't really have any other tricks up my sleeve.

There's really just one definitive thought that's punctured the cloud of sadness that's settled over me like a cold, empty fog.

 _What the fuck just happened?_

Ok, maybe two thoughts.

 _I can_ _'_ _t lose her._

Maybe it's just that when it comes to screwing up and hurting each other, Gail and I are truly out of practice. I came back to Toronto 5 months ago, and we've been living in our apartment together for most of that time. It doesn't feel like 5 months, though. More like 12 seconds and also forever.

We've both been working long hours, but even on the nights when we get home at ungodly hours, we eat Thai food together on the wood floor right out of the containers. She likes to eat hers with chopsticks, even though I told her they don't use chopsticks in Thailand. She says she'll take whatever opportunity she can to eat with sticks.

She leaves weird little things for me to find around the apartment and at work. One morning she left me a steaming mug of my favorite coffee with a picture of a slice of zombie bread that says, "Grains, grains" because she knows I have a thing for puns. She hides adorable doodles of stick figure versions of us between lab reports in my work bag with thought bubbles that say things like, "Your toes are kind of gross and look like fingers but I love you anyway" and "I love your boobs."

But those are just gestures, and they don't begin to describe how she has wormed her way into every molecule of my being. It's not about, _oh, I thought about Gail today_. It's about, _Gail has changed what I want in my life and how I see the world, and she makes me want to be the smartest, sexiest, funniest version of myself I can possibly be so we_ _'_ _re always right on par with each other_. I know how eye-rollingly cheesy it sounds, but it's true. That part happened gradually. With the ebb and flow of one day into the next. And that part was what I like best because I'm not just happy around Gail. I'm happy around me. _With_ Gail.

Even the police work and the fear that comes with loving a cop has gotten easier for me. I'm still terrified of losing her, but the more she's helped me understand about tactics and procedures and the inner workings of the profession, the more at ease I feel when she goes under cover or out on a raid.

Last month, I noticed on the job boards that a position opened at the Detective Bureau for Child Welfare. Before I could say anything about it, I walked into our bedroom one night, and Gail was hunched over my laptop, her tongue poking out of her mouth, resting on her lower lip, like it does when she's really concentrating. I knew right away what she was doing, so I lingered in the background and waited for her to tell me, to ask me for help on her cover letter or her resume. Eventually she did, and we crushed it. And there it was, unfurled out in front of us, our future. I started imagining myself married to a detective, having babies, getting a dog, bickering until we're 95 and her perfect breasts sag down to her belly button.

But then yesterday happened. And I haven't slept because I don't know how to sleep without her soft, warm body in my arms.

Before I got in the shower, I checked my phone, just to see. But she didn't call, and she didn't text.

And now I'm lost, and I have no fucking clue how long I've been in the shower.

* * *

I have typed out 17 text messages to Holly. And deleted all of them. Because what can I say to make her hear me, to make her forgive me? It was killing me to not know where she was, so I tracked her phone, and now I'm sitting outside Rachel's apartment like a total creeper. I'm in my car, and I watched Rachel leave about 15 minutes ago, but I haven't found the courage to go in. She's going to ask me for an explanation, which she deserves, and I still can't figure out why I said what I said.

I've been in the dog house with my family for so many months because of the Steve thing, because I wasn't going to lie for him in court. I guess they blame me for his sullied reputation, as if I was the one who got him into trouble. So when my mom asked me to bring Holly over for dinner, I was secretly pretty relieved. I know I'm not supposed to give a shit what my mother thinks, but after a while, the whole black sheep thing gets a little old. It wears on me.

If I'm being honest with myself (I know, _ha_ ), as good as I feel being with Holly, having my family finally accept my choices and love me for who and am and who I am not would feel so good. It's like, you can get used to the freezing cold. Your skin actually gets thicker. Eskimos do it. Penguins do it. But even for them, moving to Florida would still be kind of nice. Ok, maybe not for the penguins, but you feel me.

But I'm out of practice with my mother, so admittedly my guard was down, and we were five steps inside the house before I realized it was a trap. I could see it in my mother's eyes that this was an ambush, not a friendly visit. She started peppering Holly with questions about her background and why she came back from San Francisco, and before I knew it, I could see exactly why we were there. She brought us into the kitchen and offered us drinks, and she started the conversation that I'm afraid could be the demise of the most important—and most real—relationship of my life.

She lulled us to sleep with some initial pleasantries, and then she went in for the kill. It went like this.

"I can see why you like her, Gail. She's beautiful _and_ smart, and I must say you two are quite an attractive couple. But Gail, just so I can understand, were you always into girls, and you just pretended to be interested in men?"

"Umm, no, I wasn't pretending. I just hadn't really given it much thought, Mother."

"I see. You hadn't given it much thought. So before Miss Stewart appeared on your crime scene, you had never considered the possibility of being with a woman? So she was just so beautiful and enchanting that you decided to become gay? Is that it, Gail?"

I could feel Holly wince beside me.

"No, Jesus! It wasn't like that."

"So you are gay or you're not gay, Gail? Which is it then?"

"I don't fucking know what I am, Mother! I might be gay or I might not be."

"Well are you in love with Miss Stewart or aren't you, Gail? These don't seem like difficult questions."

"I don't—it's none of your fucking business what I am," I yelled.

And that's when Holly sucked in a sharp breath, like I'd lodged a body blow into her ribs. Her face burned with hurt and embarrassment, at the way I just left her hanging out there on the ledge by herself. On my other side, my mother smirked. She had me. Check mate. While my own pathetic words began to sink in, Holly ran out the door.

I chased her down, but she's much faster than I am, and before I knew it, her long legs had carried her out of my sight, and possibly out of my life. I stood there, panting, looking into the empty street, and one thought just keep levying blows at my heart: _You blew it._

So now, here I am. I know Holly is inside, and I have to somehow convince her that I had temporary insanity or that there was an impostor in the room with my mother yesterday. Because I cannot lose her.

I knock on the door a few times, but I know she won't answer. So after I've collected enough courage, I clench my jaw and try the doorknob. It opens, and I make a mental note to read Rachel the riot act because that is so unsafe. This is Toronto, not Saskatchewan, and I could be a mass murderer.

I call out Holly's name a few times, but she doesn't answer, and now I'm starting to worry that maybe there was a mass murderer who beat me here. But I hear the shower on, so I head into the bathroom. I open the door gently so I don't startle her. She's crying—her shoulders are shaking—and my heart breaks. All the nerve endings in my body are screaming at me, and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up. It's all too much. But I feel an overwhelming need to protect her, to save her from the pain she's feeling right now because it's my fault, so I open the shower door and get in. I have all my clothes on, but lets face it—it won't be the first time I'm fully dressed in the shower with her.

And just like the first time, the water is freezing cold, and I can see that Holly is lost inside her head like she gets sometimes.

I put my hands on her face, and look right into her eyes, pulling her slightly to get her to see me.

"Gail! What the—"

I kiss her hard on the lips, and she lets out a little whimper, like she doesn't have the energy to muster a fight. I pull back to look at her, to make sure she's with me.

"Holly? It's freezing. Can I turn off the water?"

She nods at me robotically. I reach behind her to turn off the water, and she registers that I'm fully dressed, dripping like a drenched rat in front of her. I start to shed my wet clothes, letting them flop to the bottom of the shower with an audible splat, until I"m standing in my underwear and bra. I reach outside the shower and grab two towels, first mummifying Holly tightly and then rubbing my hands up and down her arms to warm her up. Then I bundle myself up and step out of the shower, offering Holly a hand, as her limbs are sluggish from the cold.

When we're standing outside the shower, I examine her more closely. She looks so tired—her eyes are bloodshot and bleary. But still so beautiful, it makes my chest ache.

"Are you ok, Lunchbox?" I say, like an idiot.

She shakes her head no. _Of course she_ _'_ _s not ok_. So it's up to me to make it ok.

* * *

"You're freezing," Gail says. "Do you want to put on some clothes?"

I shake my head no.

I can't even talk because my teeth are chattering, but even if I could speak, I'm not sure what I would say. But Gail has that look she gets sometimes like she has something to say. Which is a relief. So I just wait.

"Holly, I know I don't get a do-over. I know I don't get another chance to show you that I won't wither under a little pressure—that I'll fight for you, fight for us. I know that. But after you left, I went back to my mom's. I told her that yes, I don't know exactly what my sexual orientation is—if I'm gay or bisexual or whatever—because all I know is that I'm a Hollysexual. Whatever I was before, I'm so fucking gay for you. And what happened yesterday had nothing to do with me questioning my sexuality or our relationship. Because you—everything about you—is right for me," Gail says, her eyes bluer than I've ever seen them. I'm still shivering, but her words are warming me from the inside.

Suddenly, her eyes prick with tears, as if something sad has occurred to her, and her voice gets gravelly when she talks. "I told her that I'm in love with you all the way to my bones. I don't really work without you anymore. And I don't want to. And then I asked her for—."

Gail's eyes suddenly widen, and she scampers back to the shower, reaching into the wet pile of clothes to fish out her jeans. I can't really see what she's doing, but she stands with her back turned to me digging something out of them. I hear the pants hit the shower floor again with a loud slap, and Gail turns around slowly to face me.

"—This."

She thrusts out her thumb and forefinger with an antique diamond ring pinched between them. I can feel myself gasp, and my eyes start swimming. I'm not even sure what I'm looking at, and my mouth just falls open.

"Gail," I whisper.

She sticks up her other hand, like she's holding off my objections.

"I know this might seem like some kind of act of desperation, and it is. It is desperate. But I'm desperately love with you."

"I'm not asking you to marry me because I'm terrified to lose you. I _am_ terrified to lose you, but I'm asking you to marry me because I want you to be with me forever. I don't ever want to be with anybody else. I never thought I could be the person I am—the person you've helped me become, the person who feels worthy of you. I wasn't sure what you saw in me at first. You're so smart and so gorgeous. But just like you do with everything else, you helped me see that too."

"Marry me, Holl. Marry me, and I promise I will always fight for us, and I'll never leave you stranded like that again."

It am silent for a while as I try to let me brain catch up to the rest of me. But I can see the quiet is killing her, so I speak, even though my throat is raw and raspy from crying.

"How do you do it?" I say, tilting my head to peer at her. "How do you always manage to shock me, to break me down, to blow a hole through my defenses? How do you do it?"

She shrugs casually, but her eyes are still narrowed with worry.

"Gail, do you seriously want to get married, because I forgive you for yesterday. We can pretend that it never happened—"

"—No. No, we can't. And I don't want to. When you ran away from me and I couldn't find you, I knew. Without a shadow of a doubt, I want to marry you. And if there's any chance you want that too—"

"I do," I say softly, grabbing her free hand and bringing it to my lips, tattooing a gentle kiss on the knuckles.

Her eyes, they soften, and her smile splits open her face and my heart, all at once.

"You do?"

"Yes."

A cry gurgles from her chest, and she launches herself at me, burrowing her face in my neck. I can feel sticky, wet tears against my throat. I kiss the top of her head, as all the tension I've carried for the last 18 hours evaporates into the air, and my chest is swollen with so much love for this maddening, amazing woman.

When I feel Gail's crying subside, I tip up her chin to look at her. _My fianc_ _é_. Holy shit. I kiss her beautiful mouth, and I try to convey everything I'm feeling, opening her lips with my own. We kiss until we're both gasping for air. She pulls back and grins at me.

"Want to go home, Lunchbox, because I'd like to make love to you, but I'm not doing it at Rachel's apartment. She already hates me enough as it is."

I laugh at that because Rachel kind of does hate her. But I think she's just jealous because Gail is so snarky and effortlessly beautiful.

"Yes. But Gail, can I… have the ring?"

"Ooops. I knew I missed a step," she says as she puts the ring on my finger. It's a little big, but it's stunning, and I gape at it.

"I can't really believe your mom let you give this to me," I say, marveling at the ring and it's very existence on my hand.

"My mom and I—we came to an understanding. It was an epic showdown, actually. King Kong vs Godzilla."

"I cannot wait to hear this," I say, pecking her lips.

"First things first," she says. "So… Holly Peck?"

"Oh, _hell_ no," I say. "How about Gail Stewart?"


End file.
